


nemesis mine (but that's neither here nor there)

by schism



Series: enemies, closer [3]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, M/M, questionable decisions from both parties in both the past and the present, this takes place sometime near to where s04e11 happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-01
Updated: 2018-03-01
Packaged: 2019-03-25 09:28:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13831314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schism/pseuds/schism
Summary: Ed and Oswald arrive at a third agreement. But hey, a road trip.[Indirect sequel tothis, which was a direct sequel tothis.]





	nemesis mine (but that's neither here nor there)

**Author's Note:**

> hello, it's me again, back at it after asking myself the question "so what happens next?" after i had a long rest and thought about my choices in writing.  
> and what ended up happening is... well, this.
> 
> it's also four am and i think i can taste colours, so i apologize if there's any typos or sentence weirdness.

Ed hears about the death of Don Falcone over the phone a few hours before the story reaches the media. And from Oswald himself no less, even though they haven’t seen each other or even spoken in days – which is very much something that Ed would like a few clarifications about.

Because, after the night at the manor, he’d thought…

Well. He’d thought a lot of things, but first and foremost that what happened was a beginning, not an ending. The past day has proven otherwise, though – and that’s part of the reason why the phone call elicits alarm even before Oswald says the words that push the world off its axis.

Then again, perhaps that’s somewhat of an exaggeration.

In any case, though, Ed’s phone rings and he manages to pick it up relatively quickly, only to hear a curt, “ _Don Falcone is dead_.”

It takes him a split-second for Ed to realize he’s hearing Oswald’s voice on the other end. Which only goes to prompt a question far more urgent than whether an old gangster is dead or not. “How did you get this number?” he asks, because it seems far more reasonable than, say, a thousand other things he could say about courtesy and gentlemanly conduct – things it seems Oswald has completely forgotten.

Speaking of.

“ _That doesn’t matter_ ,” Oswald’s tinny voice replies. “ _But if you must know, you gave it to me. Remember? Anyway, what matters is_ _that word is spreading on the streets that I ordered a hit_.”

The last part doesn’t even register at first, given that Ed’s mind is preoccupied with trying to figure out when he’d given Oswald the number of his current burner phone. After a quick examination, he’s coming up empty.

“ _Ed?_ _Did you hear me? They think I had Don Falcone killed._ ”

Ed laughs at that thought for a moment – right up until he realizes Oswald must be serious. A small, surprised “oh,” is about as much of a reply as he can manage.

There’s a long sigh on the other end.

It takes Ed a moment to let everything sink in – and it’s in that moment he figures out where the problem lies. “You think Zsasz might turn on you,” he says, only to be met with a few seconds of stunned silence on the other end.

“ _Victor? Why would he–_ ”

Oh well. “He was more loyal to the Falcone family than he is to you,” Ed cuts in before Oswald can say anything else, “and if he thinks you had anything to do with Don Falcone’s death… well. I wouldn’t be shocked to hear he’s reconsidered where his loyalties lie.”

The silence continues for a while.

“Hello?” Ed asks, unsure if the line has been disconnected or if the call is still on, for that matter. “Oswald?”

“ _Get here. Now_ ,” is the curt reply from Oswald’s end, spoken in a tone as sharp as the dial tone that follows.

Ed stares at the phone for a moment, the age-old argument of _I’m-not-one-of-your-lackeys_ - _so-stop-treating-me-like-one_ on the tip of his tongue but left without an ear to hear it.

After brief consideration, though, he decides he might as well go, since there’s nothing better to do anyway.

 

***

 

Half an hour later, Ed’s stepping into the Iceberg Lounge and finds himself met by a silent, empty room.

“Oswald,” he calls out once he’s inside the club. “Come out and face me, if you dare.”

The man in question emerges from the back office a short while later, and even though the door is open but for a few seconds, Ed can see the edges of what seems to be a pool of blood – but since no traces of blood seem to be present on Oswald’s person, he decides it’s better not to ask about it.

“No one else is here,” Oswald says, looking halfway past tired and heading into the direction of total exhaustion. “And I thought we agreed we weren’t going to do the nemesis scheme or whatever it was you called it.”

“We agreed to disagree,” Ed replies easily, stepping further into the room. “And isn’t it better to be prepared than to find oneself unequipped to deal with a given situation?”

“I don’t have time for this,” Oswald snaps and it takes Ed exactly half a second to see it’s better not to push it. “I called you because I need your help. Well, _need_ is a strong word. _Would like_ might be better.”

It’s a pointless distinction, but Ed supposes it’s one he can indulge. “Fine. How can I help?”

Oswald’s eyes widen slightly before he can school his expression back into the businesslike mask it’s been so far. “I need you to find Martin for me,” he says, pausing for a moment before the crease between Ed’s brows prompts him to continue. “I thought about what you said, and his supposed death doesn’t exactly make me look good in the eyes of the people.”

Ed gives the request a moment’s consideration. Then, an idea. “You said Zsasz took him,” he says, more of a statement than a question. “Did he use one of the old cars, one you already had during the mayoral campaign or shortly after?”

The slight hints of surprise on Oswald’s face grow into confusion. “Why do you ask?” he replies, and he must know on some level what Ed’s getting at because his perplexment starts morphing into irritation before Ed’s very eyes. “You didn’t…”

“Put trackers in your cars? Not all of them, no. Some, though.”

Most of them, actually, but Ed’s pretty sure most of those cars aren’t in Oswald’s possession anymore, so there’s no point in saying it if it will only mean infuriating him even further.

Case in point: Oswald laughs, a mixture of disbelief and aggravation. “Do correct me if I’m wrong, but what I’m hearing is you did put trackers on my cars,” he says, narrowing his eyes and crossing his arms. “What I’m not hearing is why.”

“You know why,” Ed replies quietly, and Oswald is silent for a moment, some of the anger melting away.

The pettier part of Ed’s mind thinks the reminder of his past mistakes serves him right. The rest of it, though, doesn’t want to deal with reminders of his own past lapses of judgement, especially not right now.

“Besides,” he continues, intent on trying to do damage control as quickly and efficiently as possible, “it’s a good thing I did so if it means we’ll know where the kid is.”

Oswald scoffs. “You say that as if you knew almost a year ago that a situation like this would ever arise, and that Victor would indeed take one of the old cars, and that it would be one of the bugged ones, and that the damn tracker still worked, and that a thousand other details aligned perfectly just to clear you of any wrongdoing. I can’t help but find that hard to believe.”

“It’s not up to me to decide what you believe or don’t,” Ed replies with a shrug; it’s not like he can deny the accusation, so why bother?

“So you’re not going to apologize for it,” Oswald says and pauses to huff a laugh, more to himself than at Ed. “I don’t know why I expected anything else.”

It’s Ed’s turn to scoff. “If you really do want to find Martin, it’s the best chance you’ve got. Quickest, too, might I add. I suggest you use it. What’s done is done, right? Isn’t that what we agreed on?”

“We seem to have agreed on a lot of things, but somehow I struggle to remember most of said agreeing,” Oswald replies, narrowing his eyes. “But, fine, I’ll bite. It’s not like I have much of a choice. I do have one question left, though, before you get rid of all the remaining trackers and we add it to the list of things never to be mentioned: were you ever going to tell me?”

Ed doesn’t immediately have an answer to that.

On the one hand, at the time he hadn’t even considered the possibility that Oswald would be alive long enough to find out about the trackers. On the other, it’s a strange thing to bring up in conversation. And it’s not like he’s been lying about it.

Which is exactly what he ends up saying, only in more delicate terms – well, he at least tries to, as sorry and see-through as it may be. “I was waiting for the right time.”

Oswald, as is par for the course at this point, sees right through it. “So, you were going to tell me either once I didn’t care anymore, or once I was dead. And I’m guessing back then they were the same.”

There’s no point in denying it, so Ed doesn’t. “We’re wasting time with this,” he says instead, as much a distraction from the issue as well as a reminder. “What matters right now is figuring out where the kid is, and you can be as mad at me about the trackers as you want once we’ve done that.”

Oswald laughs at that. “And would that mean you’ll never do anything of the sort again?” he asks, sounding as if he already knows the answer is no. After a moment, he adds, “I can’t expect you to be something you’re not. We are who we are – both of us, for better or worse.”

“I’d try if you asked,” Ed says, the words leaving his mouth before he even realizes it. Besides, it’s not like it isn’t true. “To be better.”

“You know as well as I do that you’d be miserable if I did. As would I, were you to ask,” Oswald replies, but it doesn’t feel at all like an answer.

“But you’d hate me for not trying anyway.”

“I figured that was implied.”

“Speaking my name will break me, since I’m rarely golden, contrary to popular belief. What am I?” And perhaps it’s a lapse Ed finds himself willing to make, or simply a flash of inspiration, but the riddle comes to him easier than anything else has in the past month or so.

Oswald scoffs again. “So, we don’t have time to talk about the trackers, but we do have time for riddles? And, speaking of, _again_ with the riddles?”

“There’s always time for riddles. Just humor me,” Ed says, and there’s a stray thread of thought at the back of his mind saying this won’t be the last time he’ll say those exact words. But right now, the future is a vague fog in the distance, something best left aside for the time being – or at least until Ed gets the present under control.

Although the real question, as he sees it, is whether Oswald will keep obliging him. And while it might not be prudent to be thinking about the future right now, when everything is precariously perched on some ledge, eluding definition and yet defined at the same time, Ed can't help but think he will.

Because, for better or worse, if Ed wants to keep… _this_ , whatever it may be, he needs to figure out what makes Oswald tick – well, more specifically, what makes Oswald stay. And, surprisingly enough, being himself has so far been the best answer he’s managed to come up with and the answer that has gotten the best response.

“Fine. It’s silence,” Oswald says eventually, having made his choice. Well, the choice Ed was hoping he’d make anyway, but couldn’t exactly ask for. “The answer to your riddle is silence.”

“Correct.”

Another moment of quiet before Oswald’s patience finally runs out. “What’s your point, then?” he asks, less of a question and more of a demand.

“I’m sure by now you’ve memorized what I said about not keeping me in the dark,” Ed replies, “and I suppose I’m reminding myself to do the same. So: I regret not telling you the whole truth sooner, especially now that we’ve started to make amends.”

Which, honestly, feels a bit like empty posturing, given that neither of them has been exactly completely upfront with the other, promises or no promises. Not to mention the plethora of past events that they still haven’t talked about, from infuriating to surprisingly pleasant.

But, much like with silence, Ed can’t help but think that once they try to name the precarious state of things between them, it’ll disappear without leaving anything behind.

So, he skirts the rest of the talk he doesn’t know if they’re ready to have, and instead offers to try and find where Zsasz took the kid with the condition that Oswald get some rest in the meantime.

And, curiously enough, Oswald looks disappointed for a fraction of a second before nodding his agreement.

 

***

 

Eight hours later, they’re halfway to Metropolis and, somehow, it feels like the last chance they’re going to get to leave Gotham for good.

Ed would be lying if he said he’d never thought of leaving, of finding a place somewhere far away from the city and everything within that might bear more potential to be home. But it's a baseless fantasy – after all, if a choice must be made between glory and the gutter, between notoriety and obscurity, there's no hesitation in Ed’s mind. Not anymore.

And at the heart of that choice lies Gotham City, among other things. Then again, most of said other things are connected to the city anyway… and Oswald would refuse to leave the city behind even if he had the opportunity and the desire to do so, since his very being seems tied to the city in some intrinsic, indivisible way – a way that Ed doesn’t understand nor consider to be applicable to himself, one that fascinates him to no end.

In any case, though, it’s half a simple desire for distractions from the dull boredom of the road, half a simple wish, pathetic as it may be, to hear Oswald’s voice that leads Ed to speak into the comfortable dark. "Tell me a story," he says, sparing a glance to Oswald, half-asleep in the passenger seat.

Once he speaks, Oswald shifts and turns to look at him, or at least Ed thinks he does; it's already hard to tell in the dark and harder still when Ed is supposed to be paying attention to the road ahead. And, now that Ed thinks about it, it might have been kinder to let him rest, however uncomfortable said rest might be.

But then again, Ed’s never considered himself a kind person, not even in his… early days.

"What kind of story?" Oswald asks after a moment, dispelling the increasingly strange and strangely intense silence.

Ed allows himself a small smile. “Any kind you like.”

After another moment of silence, Oswald begins. He tells the story of a prince, born into a pauper’s family, a story about war, and pain, and fear, but nevertheless a story about love. By all accounts, it’s a long story – and a familiar one, even if Oswald gives the characters new names.

“If I didn’t know any better,” Ed says when the story is over (or, more accurately, when Oswald stops talking for longer than a minute since there hadn’t been an ending per se), “I’d think you were talking about us.”

Oswald laughs at that, the headlights of a passing car setting his face aglow for a split-second before the dark closes in once more. “As surprising as it might sound, not every story is about us.”

“I think we both know that isn’t true,” Ed replies, “at least not for the good ones, anyway.”

“Fair enough,” Oswald says once he’s finished laughing again. “And here I was, thinking that I was supposed to be the sentimental one.” As Ed tries to come up with an answer and lets the silence sit for a few seconds, though, he points to something above the tree line: a soft, golden glow of city lights, presumably coming from Metropolis.

A quick glance at the clock reveals they’ve been on the road for three hours, and if Ed’s calculations are correct – and he has no reason to doubt they are – they should reach the northernmost suburbs of the city soon enough.

Perhaps too soon.

And as soon as Ed thinks that, there’s a low _ping_ from the reddening fuel gauge that feels both like a blessing and a curse. In either case, it’s an out – and one that he’s willing to take.

“Do you think there’s enough left to get there?” he asks instead of trying to voice the array of thoughts battered by memories of a different time and hopes that Oswald will understand what he means.

He has a knack for that, after all – and Ed is pleased to find that it still holds true, because Oswald says, “We’ll stop at a gas station if we see one,” and, all things considered, it feels close enough.

 

***

 

Ten minutes later at the gas station they somehow managed to find before reaching the highway heading into Metropolis, it becomes clear that the fuel gauge’s decision to make itself known may have indeed been more of a curse than a blessing.

Which seems a lot like laying blame on an inanimate object, devoid of reasoning, rational or otherwise, but the gauge is part of a larger problem. Namely, giving Oswald time to reconsider the current course of action.

While Ed’s busy inspecting the sorry selection of plastic-wrapped sandwiches laid out on a pastry display case (and, honestly, what kind of a self-respecting gas station even has a pastry display case?), he walks back from the counter and says, “I can’t do this.”

“You can’t pay for gas?” Ed replies, even though he has a good idea of what the ‘this’ truly is, and from the moment they left the city he’s been dreading Oswald would say it.

“I can’t bring him back to Gotham,” Oswald clarifies, voice quiet enough that it seems more for his own benefit than Ed’s. “No matter how much it seems like I should.”

And Ed tries to compare that to the patterns he knows Oswald to follow, only to find it doesn’t add up. “Why? Coming here at all was your idea in the first place.”

Oswald sighs, weary but certain. “He still has a chance to have a life outside of Gotham. I can’t bring myself to take that away from him.”

Which… is a non-explanation, really, but if Ed knows anything, it’s that once Oswald has already made up his mind, there’s little he can do to change it. And a quick inspection reveals he seems completely set on this.

So, even though he doesn’t see the line of reasoning that has led Oswald to it, Ed says, “We’ll figure something else out, then,” and doesn’t say that the whole trip has become a huge waste of time by the power of a single decision made in a ridiculous gas station. “After all, I can’t show up at Arkham if we’re supposed to be enemies.”

Oswald rolls his eyes. “I already told you we’re not doing that. However,” he pauses for a moment and lowers his voice the slightest bit despite the gas station being empty save for themselves and the night clerk, “we don’t have to go back tonight. As long as we get back in time for the funeral, we’ve got all the time in the world.”

It’s a peace offering if Ed’s ever heard one, as well as an answer to a question he hadn’t dared to ask. And while something like forty-eight hours alone together isn’t exactly a lot, it might be good enough – at least, enough to make the pointless drive to Metropolis not so pointless after all.

So, Ed smiles back, spirits ever so slightly lifted, and says, “What do you call a natural satellite covered in liquid gold?”

Oswald rolls his eyes again – fondly this time, Ed hopes – and replies, “Haven’t the slightest.”

“A honeymoon.”

“You say that as if we’re married,” Oswald says pointedly, despite the smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “Or planning to get married, for that matter.”

Ed leans the slightest bit closer and whispers, “I’m open to negotiations.”

There’s a moment of silence as Oswald’s eyes widen before he throws his head back the slightest bit and laughs, teeth gleaming in the unforgiving fluorescent light.

And, even if the night clerk does keep throwing them strange looks, for the first time in a long while, Ed finds himself thinking that everything will be alright.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr @ bctrogues


End file.
